


Sheath and Blade

by jillyfae



Series: Blood and Lyrium [8]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: AU, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied Violence, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 00:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12287493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jillyfae/pseuds/jillyfae
Summary: A very direct sequel toSilk and Steel: The morning after, fromLe Monstre'spoint of view.





	Sheath and Blade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loquaciousquark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loquaciousquark/gifts).



> And a very happy birthday to the ever amazing and inspiring quark, whose fault this entire AU is, and whose [noir Fenris](http://loquaciousquark.tumblr.com/post/85574534572/i-dont-suppose-you-have-more-noir-fenris-do-you) inspired this small additional chapter. Thank you, lovely. <3

The usual "staff” meeting is not entirely _usual_ today; it’s more enjoyable than it has been in ages, tension singing in the air ‘til his skin tingles. It is painfully difficult not to laugh at his assorted Lieutenants and their runners as they pretend they can’t tell there’s one less chair than last week, as they try so hard not to look around and count, list names in their heads and think about who they’ve lost.

Who he’s taken.

It’s tempting to smile _too much_ at them, a glint of teeth to emphasize he can tell how carefully they are trying to look at him without meeting his eyes. 

As if he’s the scariest person in the world.

He’s not even the scariest person in the _room._

Being one of only two people left alive who knows that is one of his greatest pleasures, a warm sweet ache in his chest every time he shifts in his chair and someone flinches.

Rhatigan’s finishing his report on that Tevinter they’re keeping an eye on, the Magister’s lady apprentice or whatever she is, still holed up in the caves on the Wounded Coast. They already made sure she knew where her “property” is hiding; if she doesn’t act soon, they’ll have to push her. He’s inclined to blow up the mountain, let her run from the cave-ins.

Theia will probably prefer something more subtle. She usually does.

He rolls his shoulders; she used the knife on him last night and he needs to stretch the skin. He likes the way the pain pulls, almost dull but sharp around the edges. The fact that the whole room shivers in reaction is just a bonus.

 _Maker,_ they’re delicious. 

They’re also scared enough they’re starting to talk in circles. He won’t get anything else useful out of them today. He considers the benefits of letting them ramble themselves back into complacency versus getting them out of the way, and then _she_ moves behind him. The barest shift, the silk slide of her legs rubbing together, but he can feel the weight of her attention on him and he knows what she wants him to do.

“Out.” 

He’s standing up as he speaks, and they skitter away, rustling papers and the squeak of shoes. Lita is in such a hurry she leaves her satchel, and Harlan looks slightly green when he realizes he’ll be the last one escaping. 

Gascard knows they’ll obey; it’s not worth thinking about them anymore.

He doesn’t have to turn, he knows where she’ll be, where she wants to go. He reaches behind him, _pulls,_ and shoves her down on the table in front of him, the slap of her arms hitting the wood like a shot of fire down his spine. 

It takes only a breath to undo his belt, to loosen his trousers and push them out of the way, to swallow a sigh at the release of pressure. He’s always half-hard during meetings, the warmth of her body always a half-a-step too far behind him, the barest hint of her perfume teasing him. He leans forward, arms braced on the table to either side of her, hips pushing his cock against her, and he can feel the catch in her breath as she tilts her hips, just enough to rub against him.

He indulges, the feel of silk against his skin, the soft give of her ass beneath him, the almost whine she makes as she inhales, exhales, too well pinned to do anything else. His heart is beating so hard he’s sure she can hear it, can feel it pounding against her back. He needs _more,_ always more, everything she’ll give him.

“Hair or hips,” he whispers, and he can feel her hear him, can feel her body tremble in response to his breath, his voice against her ear. 

“Hair.” 

He smiles, nips at the edge of her ear before he stands and pushes her skirts up to her hips, snaps the taut line of her garter against her skin to watch her twitch, to hear her breath catch again. 

She wouldn’t have ended the meeting if she wasn’t ready, wasn’t past ready, wasn’t aching for him as he always ached for her.

He thrusts, deep and hard, feels her body jerk and clench around him, hot and wet, and her skin catches on the wood as she slides, her fingers curling helplessly with nothing to hold, nothing to brace herself on, and her cry is loud, high and desperate and loud enough to echo down the hallway. 

He hadn’t told anyone to close the door.

They think he forces himself on her.

As if anyone could take anything she didn’t want to give.

As if he had anything left of himself that didn’t belong to her.

He pulls her back towards him by her thighs, lets go to thrust again, as hard as he can, feels her body grip him tight, try to hold, watches her slide and shudder, feels her move around him, away from him, and almost comes, heart breaking and cock throbbing and every thing inside him burns, _burns,_ and he grunts and leans in, pushing himself deeper again, listening to the small moan in the back of her throat, watching her hair move each time he moves, her body moving with his, both of them together.

He grabs her hair, curves his fingers to grip it tight, tighter, until she makes a soft almost gasp, and he sees her shoulders curl. He lifts, up and up as her head tilts and her back curves, lifts until she can’t brace her hands on the table anymore and instead she grabs his arm, nails digging in, sharp little curves that don’t _quite_ break the skin, pulls hard to half hold herself up, just enough her hair won’t tear.

His hips snap, and she cries out again, softer, warmer, and his eyes close as he does it again, again, his thrusts short and sharp now because of the change in position, and each time he does he feels her feel him, feels her body respond, feels the jerk and the clench, the heat, the give deep inside her as she takes him. He feels her nails dig in, feels her back and thighs begin to tremble, but he doesn’t let her down, doesn’t, can’t, can’t stop, can’t even slow down, not as he feels her body tense more, not as he hears her voice change, sharper and higher, and he speeds up, grunting with each breath, each thrust, ‘til her voice breaks and her body breaks and her nails break the skin and his magic flares at the feel of his blood set free, at the swirl of her own magic responding, and she _screams,_ and she comes so hard he thinks he’s died.

Her body gives, her grip eases, and she sways as he lets his cock slide free. He braces her against his chest, listens to the heavy sigh of her breath, turns her around and lays her down on the table, cradling her head ‘til she settles.

There’s a small crease above her closed eyes, a sad little grunt in her throat as he stands, leaving her spread across the table, hair a mess and skirts tangled. He pauses to admire the view, the ache of his heart-beat caught in his throat.

He fixes her skirts, pulling them up again, letting his thumbs tease against the warm soft skin of her thighs, and when he leans forward this time he enters her slowly, so slowly, each warm breath deeper than the one before, until he’s as deep as he can go, as warm as possible, pressed to her body, her thighs holding his hips, her breasts hot against his chest, the table cool against his elbows even as her arms wrap around his shoulders and her hips shift and she makes a soft pleased moan as his hips slowly roll.

He kisses her at last, hot breath and soft lips and the lift of her chin as she sighs into his mouth. 

“Hello, lover.” She smiles at him as he lifts his head.

He smiles, and breathes in. He breathes out, rolls his hips again to feel the heat of her around him, to watch her eyes close, to follow the dark curl of her lashes against the pale lines of her scars. “May I?”

“Please,” she whispers, so soft if he didn’t know the shape of her mouth as she spoke he wouldn’t have been able to hear it, even though he’s close enough to feel her breath against his mouth. 

He lifts himself up, palms flat against the table as he pulls back, feels her slick move against his skin, pushes in ‘til his cock is surrounded by heat and pressure, out and in, deep, steady strokes until it’s enough, ‘til he’s full and hot and his breath is ragged, ‘til he has to let it all go, has to give her everything, has to close his eyes for one last hard push, one final release.

She laughs at him, soft and fond, as he lets himself fall foward upon her, kisses her cheek, rubs his nose gently against the line of her jaw. He switches to teeth, a soft graze against her skin before he stands again, a grunt as he straightens his back before he offers her his hand, lifts her from the table. He steps back ‘til he feels his chair against his legs, pulls her with him until she’s settled in his lap.

“Maybe I wanted to hear the next report, my dear.” He can’t even pretend to frown at her, and kisses her again to feel her lips curve in a smile against his. “Though we will have to do something about our Tevinter diversion soon.”

He can feel the shift of her shoulders as she shrugs. “Maybe we should send the elf to her, rather than the other way ‘round?”

“Slavers on the Coast?” He lets his fingers find hers, feels her knuckle and rubs his thumb up and down the curve. 

“He is rather singular in his desires,” she says. “What a lovely idea.”

“What is your plan if somehow he loses?” 

She shakes her head. “Hadriana’s much too arrogant to take him seriously. She doesn’t realize how powerful his hate makes him.” She pauses; they recognize a good hate. “He has that detective and her... _people_ helping him, too.”

His thumb stops moving. “Hawke?”

“I know she’s not -- “ She shifts, and his eyes burn for everything they will never be, will never have... though if they could, they wouldn’t be here, and he hates the thought of a world where he’s not her shield, her distraction, her monster. 

“But you rather like her, don’t you?” 

“Everyone has a few weaknesses.” Her hand lifts from his grasp, her finger brushing against his lips, her face as soft as the scars allow. 

He kisses her fingertips.

Her hand lingers against his mouth for a moment longer before she clicks her tongue and shakes her head, clearly attempting to return to his question. “Even if the free elf loses, Hadriana carting him back will still distract Danarius.”

Gascard hums. “It won’t be as good as her death.”

“No.” Theia sighs. “Not as satisfying either.”

“She is quite unpleasant. Let’s assume she dies.” 

“Ideally.” Her smile is back, small and sharp, and he considers biting her lip so he can taste as well as see it. “She dies, Danarius is finally forced to come himself, and all his contracts are ours once his heart is ripped free.”

“Are you sure the elf can kill him?” 

She bares his teeth at him; they recognize a good hate. He kisses her again, hard, _harder,_ until he feels her fingers curl against his neck, until feels his lungs burn and his head spin. 

They gasp as they break free, and he holds her face between his hands, thumbs tracing the edges of her scars. “For some people, hate isn’t enough. Some people aren’t as strong as you.”

“As us.” Her fingers flatten, press, until he can feel his breath and heart caught beneath the push of her palms. The pressure eases, and her hands slide to rest against his chest. “If Fenris isn’t who we think he is, I’ll kill Danarius myself.” 

His heart stutters at the thought of it, a tangle of heat at the image of her hands stained with blood, a shiver of fear at the thought of her face to face with a Magister, old and brutal. “If I swear to cut his heart out and bring it to you, will you promise to stay in the shadows?”

Her head tilts, and her smile grows. “You do know how to put on the charm, don’t you?”

“Only for you, my lady. Only you.” 


End file.
